


Sparks

by Nelsynoo



Series: Anwen Trevelyan [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: All very sweet, Anwen gets argumentative, Cullen Has Issues, Cullen dealing with some of his issues with magic, F/M, Fluff, a little magic, and then feels bad about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-30 02:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12643983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelsynoo/pseuds/Nelsynoo
Summary: Anwen and Cullen get into an argument about her casual use of magic. Cullen has some mage issues to work out and Anwen tries to prove to him that there IS a good side to magic, that it's not all pain and torture - but something light and tremulous and whimsical.I thought I'd end my weekend with some Cullen/Trevelyan sweetness!





	Sparks

Wicks is muttering to himself as he tries to light the fire, crouched on the ground with the flint and his pocket-knife held somewhat haphazardly in gloved hands. There’s the occasional flick of light when the steel blade clacks against stone but the sparks don’t seem to catch, the nest of tinder remaining stubbornly cold.

Anwen hovers a few feet behind the young scout, watching with growing impatience at his repeated failures to light the fire. She knows she should be more understanding of poor Wicks’ plight; after all, the forest still holds the lingering dampness left over from the rather dramatic rainfall earlier in the day. But then it’s hard to be understanding when she’s just _so fucking cold_ – the icy numbness settling in her toes and fingers, the needling of the wind as it whips across the clearing they've chosen as their campsite.

_Sort your shit out,_ her mind grouses darkly _, the illustrious Inquisitor is freezing her fucking arse off here._

She watches for a few more minutes – listens to a few more choice expletives as Wicks smacks his knife against the flint in increasingly frantic, haphazard strikes – before finally stomping forward with an overly-dramatic sigh.

“Let me,” she says, aiming for polite but landing squarely in curt, nudging Wicks out of the way as gently as her impatience will allow.

She crouches low, raises her palms to face the pile of logs and kindling, then lets small sparks of lightening trip out of her fingertips. She’s always liked the feel of lightening, the pleasant tingling that pools in the palm of her hands, the exciting frisson that ripples down her fingers as she casts. Watching the little ribbons of white and blue skitter across the wood, Anwen can’t help but smile.

The leaves start to smolder, then the larger logs catch light, until soon the firebed is filled with a burning, broiling heat. It’s a welcome relief; the wave of warmth pushing out against the chill of the evening, banishing the lilac mists that are creeping from between the densely packed trees of the forest and into their small clearing.

“Thanks,” Wicks grumbles, clearly irritated that Anwen was able to start a fire with such ease after his many failed attempts – but then his face holds little genuine irritation; too pleased to finally have a roaring source of heat.

She gives his shoulder a conciliatory squeeze as she stands, although she’s unable to keep the smug, satisfied smile from her face. It’s nice to feel useful; nice to use her magic for something other than killing for a change. But the smile is soon lost when she turns and finds Cullen looking at her disapprovingly from the other side of the clearing, arms crossed in a way that reminds her eerily of an old governess she’d had as a child. 

She counters his frown with one of her own, brows furrowed and nose crinkled – confused, mainly, but also a little petulant – inexplicably riled by his somewhat surly expression. He responds by arching one of his brows, and Anwen can’t help but think that the gesture is oddly challenging.

It’s not the first time she’s seen Cullen wearing this particular expression, jaw tense and lips curled downward in disappointment. She’s seen it around the War Table, when Josephine reads the latest request for assistance from whichever entitled, self-important noble thinks the Inquisition owes them one now. She’s seen it in his office when one of the Skyhold messengers interrupts one of their more… _amorous_ meetings. But she’s never seen it directed toward her and she _does not like it_.

She steps across the campground in quick, clipped steps; if Cullen has some sort of problem, she wants to know what it is.

“What’s wrong?” she asks when she’s at his side, curt and quick, “What’s with the face?”

His eyes narrow, looking at her pointedly. “You shouldn’t use your magic so… casually,” he reprimands, and though he’s trying to keep his tone even, she can tell from the slight twitch in the corners of his eyes that he’s genuinely annoyed.

“You’re upset about the fire?” she asks, confused as to how something as innocuous as the fire has managed to upset him so.

“It’s not just the fire – it’s…” he gestures vaguely, “it’s _all the time_. You cast healing spells to cure hangovers, summon fireballs to light candles. It’s… _irresponsible_.”

“I’m a _mage_ ; I use magic,” she snaps back, “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“You don’t _need_ to use magic as often as you do – every time you use magic, there’s the potential for danger, the potential for… _temptation_.” His whispers the last word with a strange intensity, perhaps trying to convey just how serious he is in proffering up this warning to Anwen. Instead, his tone merely serves to aggravate her further; Anwen has never responded well to being scolded.

“You think I’m going to be possessed by a demon just for lighting a few fucking candles?!” she says, speaking louder than before, “for fuck’s sake, Cullen!”

“Anni!” he barks, urgent and pressing, “I’ve been a Templar; I _know_ the risks!”

“Believe me, Cullen, I know the fucking risks too!” she says, shouting now, seemingly unaware of the looks being cast her way by the nearby scouts, “ _I’m_ the one who hears the whispering of demons every night, _not you_!”

She knows her tone is cruel but she doesn’t expect him to flinch the way he does, his whole face contorting for the briefest of moments before falling eerily still and impassive. Her words must have hit a nerve, something raw and tender, and she feels a sharp twinge of guilt, strong enough to sting even through her roiling anger. She knows there’s much he still conceals from her; it’s hardly a surprise that she’s managed to say something unwittingly insensitive. Perhaps something to do with the bad dreams?

There’s a pregnant pause, the campsite cloaked in an awkward silence, and Anwen only now notices how the other scouts are staring, pretending to be carrying on with their tasks but undeniably keeping their eyes trained on Anwen and Cullen.

Cullen bobs his head awkwardly from side-to-side, clearly as discomfited with the attention as she is, before taking her gently by the forearm to usher her away from the campsite and the scouts’ curiosity. Anwen lets him lead her away, hating to lose her temper but hating even more _to be seen_ to lose her temper.

When they’re a fair distance into the forest, hidden from prying eyes by the thick crowd of trees, Cullen turns to face her. “Anni… listen,” he starts softly, perhaps hoping to diffuse the situation before it gets really out of hand.

“No, Cullen,” she interrupts before he can continue, “ _you_ need to listen; you need to understand. I’ve been a mage for a really long time and I – I _know_ what I’m doing! I know how the whole magic and demon thing works!” 

“All right, all right,” he mutters, palms raised in a pacifying gesture, “I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have implied… _I know_ , Anwen. I know you know the risks.”

She can tell he wants to say more, his lips parting before abruptly snapping shut, and she wants to say more too; more than anyone she wants Cullen to understand her. Instead they both simply stand and stare at each other, glowering with the dissatisfaction of an argument left unresolved, neither of them feeling like they’d particularly won.

Anwen shivers, the air crisp and biting this far away from camp, and she wishes more than anything that she was snuggled up with Cullen beside the fire, a cloak draped around their shoulders and mugs of hot tea in their hands. Or maybe in her tent, nestled beneath a mountain of furs while they read books by the sputtering candlelight. Certainly not in the middle of a frigid forest, the sky dark and moon-less above them, Cullen’s face shadowed with disappointment. 

Anwen isn’t usually bothered by other people’s disapproval. She appreciates that not everyone can be pleased (even by someone as strategically charming as she is). But she cannot stand to see disapproval on Cullen’s face; cannot stand to see his eyes narrow coldly when he looks at her. She wishes desperately that she could summon the words to make him understand.  

“Being a mage is pretty shit, you know,” she says, “always afraid of Templars, afraid of yourself, of what you might do – _who you might hurt_ – should you lose control.” Usually she would hate how small her voice sounds, preferring to portray herself as confident and always in control. But for now she doesn’t mind her vulnerability; Cullen needs to hear this, all of this. “So sometimes I use my magic to light a few candles or… or keep my bathwater warm. They’re just little things that make life… _a little easier_. Can you really begrudge me these few indulgences?” 

Cullen doesn’t respond, merely stares at her with what she thinks is confusion (which, she concedes, is vastly preferable to disapproval). His frown still remains but it seems softer now, some of the tension in his jaw easing away just a little. The air between them feels heavy somehow, weighed down with unspoken words and unresolved questions. Anwen thinks that perhaps she should try to explain herself further, to fill the silence with her own jumbled thoughts, but instead she waits, desperate to know what Cullen is thinking but too proud to just ask him outright. 

“Do you ever wish you… weren’t a mage?” Cullen asks.

The question comes unexpectedly. Not just from Cullen but – she’s never been asked that by _anyone_ before.

“No,” she answers, a little too quickly, a little loudly, then, “yes,” softer, head bowed as if embarrassed by the admission. “It’s… complicated, I guess.”

It’s a difficult question and she’s not certain where to even begin in answering it. So instead she turns away from him and walks a few steps further into the forest, giving herself just a little more space to think. She stops to lean against a thick, mossy tree trunk, her eyes downcast and watching intensely as she needles her booted toe against the jumbled mass of roots at her feet. 

If someone had asked her several years ago, her answer would have been swift and definitive: _yes, she wishes she was not a mage, wishes most fervently_. As a Trevelyan, she’d been born into a life of comfort and abundance, had been raised to believe that this would never change. The late onset of her magic had shattered that comfortable illusion and sent her running from her home, doomed her to a nomadic existence as a wanted apostate. She’d hated her magic then, tried frantically to repress it, to deny its very existence. It had taken her years to accept who she was, to let herself learn and appreciate her magic, to accept it as a gift and not a curse (a lesson she’d learned only with the help of other apostates she’d been lucky enough to meet). 

And now she is Inquisitor, using her magic to help save countless lives – and she realises now that her magic is a _part of her_ , as intrinsic to her character as her keen curiosity or easy charm or her penchant for colourful expletives.

Cullen waits diligently for a few moments before he follows her, treading cautiously through the foliage until he’s standing in front of her. He raises one hand to cup her cheek, tilting her head back so that she’s looking at him and not the idle fidgeting of her feet.

“Complicated is… fine,” he says, “I still want to understand.”

“You’ve only ever seen the bad parts of magic,” she says, “but… there _are_ good parts as well.”

From his blank expression, it’s clear that he’s not convinced. And she’s not sure she can blame him. She’s heard the stories of Kirkwall – of blood magic and explosions and the Knight-Captain driven to insanity – and they seem almost quaint compared to the rumours she’s heard of Kinloch Hold. She’s heard about the demons; demons and death and hallways that rattled with the screams of tortured Templars. If that is all Cullen knows of magic, it’s no wonder he flinches every time she casts.

“When you cast a spell, it’s… _exhilarating_ ,” she explains, eyes open and expressive as she looks at him with uncharacteristic earnestness, “All your nerves are alive, tingling, and tickling and… and you feel _connected_ – to the veil, to the world around you, to _everything_. It’s a wonderful sensation, you know, feeling a part of something greater than yourself.”

“I can understand,” he says numbly.

“I don’t think you do,” she responds, brows furrowing at his blank expression, “I don’t think… words don’t do it justice.”

There’s another pause – still awkward, still heavy – and this time Anwen doesn’t think she can fill it with her own prattling; words just seem thoroughly inadequate for everything she wants to convey.

She’s suddenly struck with a moment of inspiration and her eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Do you want to… _feel it_?” she asks, lips quirked in a cautious smile, “ _magic_ , that is – do you want to feel it – the way I do?”.

He looks at her with confusion, clearly uncertain as to what her proposition might actually entail. And there’s wariness too, suspicion shadowing every feature as his mouth twists and his nose wrinkles.

She fears she’s made a mistake, dismayed by the darkness in his expression, and she shrugs defensively. “It was a silly suggestion…” she mumbles, “forget about it. I know you don’t wan-“

“All right,” he says, cutting her off, and she starts a little at his sudden abruptness; she hadn’t actually expected him to accept her offer (as much as she’d wished he would).

“Really?” she says, “I know you don’t like magic and I don’t want to do _anything_ that makes you uncomfortable.”

“Yes, I mean it,” he says, “You’re right; I’ve only ever seen the dark side of magic. I’d like to experience magic the way you do.”

She smiles, carefully at first but then with growing eagerness as Cullen’s words really sink in. _He wants to experience magic the way she does_. And she feels an unexpected little quiver of excitement at the thought because, well, it seems oddly _intimate_ , sharing her magic with him – more than their lingering kisses on Skyhold’s battlements, or feverish fumblings against the desk in his office. Because Anwen’s magic is a part of her, something deep and dark and secret, and she knows that sharing it with him will leave her oddly exposed, almost bare before him.  

“Well,” she starts, pulling herself up from leaning against the tree, stepping close in front of him, body squared so she can face him head-on. “Just… tell me if you want to stop. Understand?”

He nods, looking understandably nervous, but there’s a steeliness in his eyes, a determination which suggests he means to see this through to the end.

She lifts her hands to take hold of his, raising them into the space between them and laying them flat, palms facing skyward. She holds her hands beneath his, only slightly trembling, and takes a few moments just to feel him, the warmth of him, the roughness of his skin where it pulls against the calluses on her palms.

And then she reaches inside of herself and she _pulls_ , tugging on that tendril of magic, that whispering torrent of power that always thrums in the darkest recesses of her mind. The magic comes just like it always does, slow at first then all at once, pooling into her hands with an almost stifling heat. She holds it for a moment, making sure that she’s in full control, before finally pushing outward, skin prickling as the first ribbons of lightning and fire start to trickle out of her fingers.

She can feel the magic swirling outward, snapping against Cullen’s hands, against them and _through_ them, and it’s taking all of Anwen’s concentration to keep the heat out of the flames and the sting out of her lightning. She wants him to feel the magic, not pain. Fire and light weave harmlessly through the bone and sinew of Cullen’s hands then fuse into a ball above his palms.

He twitches a little at the peculiar sensations, at the feel of Anwen’s magic biting and snapping against his flesh, but makes no attempt to move.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

He simply nods in response, though Anwen would feel more relieved if his face didn’t look quite so stiff and grim.

She pushes again with her mind, pouring herself out, letting her thoughts and her feelings coalesce as she casts.

The ball convulses for a moment, writhing and snapping, until it suddenly blooms, petals of fire opening up among the swirling curls of lightning. 

Cullen smiles.

The flower then churns and changes, each petal slipping free then rising into the narrow space between them. The petals flutter for a moment before reshaping into butterflies, their tiny, flaming wings flapping through the air. A trail of silvery lightning drags behind each one, casting odd shapes against their faces as the lights swirl and cajole.

Cullen’s smile broadens even more then, showing teeth through the crooked curl of his lips.

Anwen watches as the butterflies dip and curve before pushing out again with her mind, watching with satisfaction as her magic changes shape again, the butterflies bursting into tiny starbursts, little sparks of lightning and fire that pop and sizzle like fireworks.

“It’s… beautiful,” Cullen murmurs, voice incredulous, coloured by only the barest tremor of wariness.

“Can you feel it?” she asks, curious as to whether her magical display has actually had the intended effect. Sure it may _look_ pretty – but Anwen wants Cullen to understand so much more than that. She wants him to understand the _sensation_ of magic; its warmth, its heat, the pulsing ebb and flow of power.

He nods. “I can. It’s… it’s _strange_. It’s like…” he trails off, struggling to find the right words, then clears his throat before trying again. “It’s like… it’s alive. And I can feel it. And I can feel _you_.”

Each star coalesces into the shape of a leaf, broad and pointed like those of the sycamores that loom all around them. The leaves swoop idly through the air, stirred by some intangible wind, before settling on Cullen’s upturned hands.

He laughs then, almost giddy, though still a bit frayed around the edges. His discomfort is not yet completely banished but there’s something strangely enchanting about Anwen’s little spectacle. It’s _odd_ , the feel of her magic as it tugs at his skin and slides through his flesh, but it’s remarkably freeing, _cathartic_ almost, to feel magic _for once_ without pain.

Anwen dips her head and blows, and the leaves go flying – curling and spinning through the air before suddenly winking out of existence as Anwen lets her magic dissipate into the cold blackness of the evening.

Even with the magic gone, they stand with their hands resting together.

“Was that… are you…?” Anwen tries to speak then stops, not sure what she’s even trying to ask.

“That was…” Cullen stops too, and he pulls his lips into a thin line as he thinks.

Still lost for words, Cullen turns his hands so that he can take hold of Anwen’s, his fingers lacing with hers. He squeezes, letting his hands convey what his words cannot.

_Thank you for sharing with me._

She squeezes back. 

_You’re entirely welcome._

He takes a step forward until he’s close enough to lean his forehead against hers, their hands still held entwined between them. He feels close and comfortable, body curved around Anwen’s much smaller frame, and Anwen doesn’t realise how tense she’d been before until she feels how relaxed she is now.

She doesn’t like arguing with Cullen. Not that it happens very often – but when it does, it leaves a foul taste in her mouth, cruel words tasting sour as they press through snarling lips. This one had resolved far better than she could have anticipated. Magic has always been a sore point between them, a point of contention they both studiously avoid, pointedly ignoring so that it festers and needles.

But now – now things are different – now there’s a resolution, an understanding between them.

“I’ll try,” she whispers into the space between them, “to be more careful with my magic.”

He lifts his head just long enough to press a tender kiss to the crown of her head, then drops it again so that his forehead is again pressing comfortingly against her own.

“You’re a mage; you use magic,” he whispers back, “I’ll deal with it.”

**Author's Note:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


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